


i'm falling for your eyes (but they don't know me yet)

by inanotheruniverse



Series: love they say [4]
Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Kelley O'Hara/Emily Sonnett - mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inanotheruniverse/pseuds/inanotheruniverse
Summary: Tobin starts plucking at the strings after a whispered one, two, three, four; opens her mouth next, and starts singing.Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in are the words that her tongue pushes out. But there’s some sort of tune that plays inside Tobin’s head, completely different from the one she’s singing, as it always does these days. Its cue: the upward curve of bright pink lips, the lightest red dusting a pair of cheeks, the scrunch of a perfect nose.An Ed Sheeran, Joshua Radin and Florence + The Machines song all rolled into a melody that Tobin has long named Christen Press.or the: “i’m a struggling musician who plays guitar and sings in the streets, and you’re the kind pedestrian who always smiles and compliments me before leaving money, but today you didn’t come at your usual time and i’m sad. but you show up thirty minutes later, saying, “sorry, i didn’t have any change on me, so i wanted to take you out somewhere instead. eat with me?”” prompt that i ran away with.





	i'm falling for your eyes (but they don't know me yet)

Tobin is on her third song when she sees _her_ again.

She’s in a black leather jacket this time, the sleeves falling past her hands. The hems fall to her hips, but it fails to hide the sliver of skin that shows as her cream-colored crop top rides up when she fixes her hair.

Tobin miraculously doesn’t stutter, or fall off-key. Her knees also don’t buckle, but she _does_ swallow thickly to push back the lump that surges up in her throat at the sight of _her_ smiling face, and her warm green eyes sparkling with recognition.

The street is buzzing with people, so much that Tobin can barely even hear her own voice. The music wafting from her guitar is more from muscle memory than anything, the sound losing to the chatter of the passersby and the chime of the cafe’s door she’s standing a few steps away from as it slams close behind _the_ woman.

 _But_ Tobin does hear _her_ voice, does hear the faint _hi_ that comes out of her lips. She hears it as clear as her favorite song playing on the radio; along with the _clink_ of the handful of change that _she_ gently drops inside Tobin’s guitar case once she gets close enough.

She beams at her, partly out of gratitude—mostly because she’s just really glad to see her; the highlight of Tobin’s day.

The song gets cut short, in this harmonic way that doesn’t make it too obvious. Tobin plucks a quick melody to close it, before shifting her guitar so that it hangs upside down behind her back. Then, she says, “Hey, you.”

“Hi, Tobin,” the other woman greets again, smile stifled by teeth nibbling on a bottom lip. But it falls just as fast, replaced by a small pout. “Why’d you stop?”

“I uhm,” Tobin starts to say, clearing her throat, then, “I wanted to ask if you’d like to request any song?”

The other woman pulls back a little in surprise. “Really?”

Tobin nods, the corner of her lips tugging into a closed smile. “Anything you want. I might play it by ear at best, though.”

Long, curly black hair swishes gracefully behind a cloaked back as it tumbles past the slope of a broad yet perfect shoulder. Tobin watches, transfixed, as the woman in front of her tilts her head, seemingly thinking. Her eyes narrow playfully, thin lips pursing while a slender finger taps against a smooth cheek.

“Hmmm,” the woman hums, pondering. Yet, in the end, she lets Tobin decide. “You know what? Surprise me.”

A soft laugh escapes Tobin. “As you wish.”

She reaches behind her, wrapping her fingers around the neck of her guitar, and then spinning it back around to cradle it within her arms.

Tobin starts plucking at the strings after a whispered _one,_ _two,_ _three, four;_  opens her mouth next, and starts singing.

 _Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in_ are the words that her tongue pushes out. But there’s some sort of tune that plays inside Tobin’s head, completely different from the one she’s singing, as it always does these days. Its cue: the upward curve of bright pink lips, the lightest red dusting a pair of cheeks, the scrunch of a perfect nose.

An Ed Sheeran, Joshua Radin and Florence + The Machines song all rolled into a melody that Tobin has long named _Christen Press_.

.

 

The song is over a little too sooner than Tobin would like—if she could, she’d play it forever just so she can keep the stars in Christen’s eyes—and Christen is rooting around the small pocket of her bag for more change.

Tobin almost tells her that there’s no need, but Christen doesn’t really know that she has long stopped playing at this same spot for the extra cash.

(She only ever needed a fair amount to last her for a week or two, which she managed to collect in just four days of singing.

Still, she showed up on the fifth day, and earned a _you have a very beautiful voice_ and a blush from the most beautiful girl she has ever laid her eyes on.

Though Tobin didn’t see her the next day, nor the three days after that. She almost didn’t go back.

But her smile haunted Tobin every night. And what was once _just_ another face became one Tobin unknowingly looked for in the crowd, in every corner she turned to, and every sea of people she played for.

So Tobin had gone back under the guise of wanting to save more money to buy a better guitar.

And then she finally saw her walking down the street, crossing the road to where Tobin was.

All Tobin could do then was sigh wistfully while strumming her guitar, and go on singing.

 _She, she is the words that I can’t find._ )

Christen’s already dropping the pennies before Tobin can even find her voice to speak and tell her that her request is for free, despite knowing that Christen doesn’t really take no for an answer. Something she found the hard way in the six weeks and three days that she has known her.

So, instead, Tobin says, “Thanks, Christen.”

Christen pockets the hand that isn’t holding the cup of coffee and lowers her head, trying to hide the shy smile beneath the hoodie she’s already drowning in. Then, she looks at Tobin from under fluttering lashes. “Will you sing me another song tomorrow?”

Tobin almost says, _I’d do anything you want me to_. But her head _knows_ that it’s too much too soon, even though her heart feels otherwise. The words hang at the tip of her tongue, yet she swallows them back down and says, “Wouldn’t miss that chance for the world.”

.

 

Christen leaves after another song or two. Tobin would like to think it was _reluctantly_ , banking on the rueful, timid smile she gets left with as Christen waves goodbye to her, and the mumbled _hey dad_ that Tobin catches while she watches Christen pick up a call on her phone, until she disappears completely in the crowd.

Alex, the cafe owner, takes Christen’s place. She happily listens to the song Tobin next plays, and then throws a paper bill that Tobin’s already hugely grateful for no matter the figure. (She only ever gets people’s change, so it’s always going to be a surprise when someone gives her more than that.)

“I’ll never get tired of listening to you sing,” Alex marvels once Tobin closes with a husked note. “Have you ever thought about playing on stage?”

“I, uhm,” Tobin starts, stumbling at the genuine interest and attention Alex is giving her. It’s been a week since she met Alex— _officially_ ; the weeks before that, she was just the kind owner who didn’t drive her away, and instead occasionally gave her coffee and a free meal—but her kindness never fails to surprise Tobin. “I do open mic nights? But other than that, I’ve never really tried.”

Alex hums, tilting her head to ponder, until there’s a tug at the corner of her lips. “You know, I’ve always wondered what seems to be lacking in my cafe. But I think I’ve found it.”

Tobin frowns in confusion, but she returns the smile anyway. “Congratulations?”

A soft laugh rumbles from Alex’s chest, making her shoulders shake a little. Then, “What do you say about playing at my cafe on weekends?”

Tobin’s eyes grow wide, clearly surprised. Her mouth shapes into a small _o_ , as her grip on her guitar tightens.

But it loosens at the next second. On any other day, she would’ve said yes right away. But she’s got more...  _reasons_ why she stays on the street these days, and that makes her somewhat hesitate.

“It doesn’t have to be the whole day, Tobin,” Alex clears up when she sees the indecision settle on the smaller woman’s face. “You can still play on your mic nights. Or here outside, if you really want to.”

Tobin wordlessly runs through the past weekends in her head, trying to remember if she’s seen Christen on those days. Her memory doesn’t really give her anything—it’s not the best, but Tobin remembers _everything_ about Christen—and so she tells Alex, “I’d be honored, Alex.”

Alex beams at her in turn, clapping and doing tiny jumps in place. “Great! I’ll see you, Saturday! And oh, coffee’s on me today.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to!”

“Tobin,” Alex warns with a playful tone. “You should know this early that I don’t really take no for an answer. My best friend and I share that trait.”

Tobin figures she’s telling the truth as she watches Alex stoop down and shut her guitar case before hauling it inside the cafe.

...

 

She’s _not_ a giant ball of nerves when Saturday comes; okay, _maybe_ she is. But it’s really the first time she’s going to play in such an intimate setting, in broad daylight, for people with varying tastes in music (some may not even be music lovers _at all_ ).

The butterflies in her stomach feel akin to the chimes that ring all over as she pushes _No Jams_ ’ door open, which only grows when Alex welcomes her with a very excited grin and pulls her towards one of the booths nearest to the kitchen door.

“Hi to you too,” Tobin chuckles by way of greeting. She slides her guitar case inside the booth as Alex gestures for her to sit. “So, where do you want me to, uhm, play?”

“Right down to business, I see,” the other woman quips. She juts her chin out, pointing to a small, raised platform at the far corner of the cafe. “I’ve had a mini-stage done when I had the place renovated. But we never really got to put it to good use.”

It’s conveniently placed at a spot where all the cafe-goers can easily see. Though, Tobin hasn’t really noticed that space up until now. She shuffles on her seat, looks over her shoulder, and lets her eyes roam around the modest instruments surrounding it: an acoustic guitar, a beatbox, and a folded mic stand front and center.

They seem to be more _decorative_ than anything, barely used without a hint of dust or fingerprints on them.

Tobin twists back around, arm already reaching for her guitar case. “What do you say we get started?”

“I’d say yes but, first things first. Have you had breakfast?”

She opens her mouth to say she has—if day old bread and instant coffee mix can be considered as such—but her stomach chooses that perfect moment to betray her. And now, Tobin just wants nothing but for the ground to swallow her whole as her stomach makes another noise.

“I’m taking that as a no,” Alex teases. But she doesn’t laugh _at_ Tobin. Instead, she waves a hand to catch another person’s attention, though Tobin’s too busy trying not to sink into the very soft seat rest and disappear for a century to see who it is.

“Hey, Al!” Another woman’s voice floats in the air, echoing in Tobin’s ears like a perfect rhythm. A melody she knows all too well, what with each lilt in her tone plucking at Tobin’s very own heartstrings. “Is this the singer you were telling me— _Tobin_?”

“C-Christen,” Tobin stutters. There’s a lace of disbelief in her tone—absolutely the good kind, don’t get her wrong, but it’s Christen; some part of Tobin will always be in permanent disbelief—and she’s starting to think that Alex is the guardian angel she’s been praying to since she was four.

“Yep, Chris,” answers Alex nonchalantly. Like she didn’t just shake Tobin’s world with _this_. “And I see you two know each other already.”

Christen throws her a glare, sharp and screaming _shut up_. But the pink tainting her cheeks belies it entirely, and Alex ends up grinning at the flush that climbs up to the tips of her ears.

Tobin feels her own cheeks heat up, especially when Alex scoots further inside the booth and tugs Christen down by her wrist, pulling the other woman to sit beside her, right in front of Tobin.

“Christen here makes the best cheesecakes,” Alex begins with a smirk. She turns to Christen next, clearing her throat, and holds a hand in the air as if introducing the artist in front of them to her. “And well, you already know Tobin. You haven’t shut up about her since—”

“Kelley!” Christen yells for the barista leaning by the cashier, who’s watching them with keen interest, the mischief dancing in her eyes.

She cups a hand over Alex’s mouth to stop her from speaking altogether, and then instructs _Kelley_ to fix a cup of their house blend and a plate of their signature sandwich.

Kelley brings a steaming cup to their booth not long after, and the signature sandwich that, apparently, is Christen’s recipe too. A fact that Alex casually lets slip as soon as Christen draws her hand back.

She sidles away with Kelley, sliding out through the other end of the booth, and leaving Tobin to Christen’s gentle hands with an _I have to go back to the kitchen. Don’t worry, Tobin, Christen’s going to take very good care of you_.

.

 

An awkward atmosphere lingers in the air after Alex leaves. Though, it’s more of Tobin not really knowing what to do because it has never been _just_ Christen and her. There’s always another passer by dropping their change in Tobin’s guitar case, a screaming kid who wants his balloon back, an elderly couple swaying to the song Tobin plays.

(Her entire world grinding into a halt and anything that isn’t Christen fading in the background doesn’t really count.)

It takes Tobin two hastened sips of coffee and a scalded tongue to get over the bashfulness, because now she’s more worried about the burn than looking like a fool in front of the girl she absolutely adores; Christen gets over hers the moment Tobin scrunches her nose, trying to get rid of the sudden heat that bursts inside her mouth.

It’s replaced by some form of concern she’s not really used to feeling, shooting down straight to her spine. And it prompts Christen to remind Tobin, though hidden under the guise of a soft laugh. “Careful, Tobin.”

Tobin, in turn, blows out the air she’s puffed in her cheeks; resists the urge to dart her tongue out and fan it with her fingers.

It curbs into an impulse to reach out and wipe the smidgen of flour that lines on Christen’s left cheek when she catches sight of it, one that she tamps down by taking a bite of the sandwich.

It’s probably the best sandwich Tobin’s ever had; coupled with Christen’s smile from across her, Tobin thinks she has never had anything better.

.

 

In a span of half an hour, Tobin feels like she learned a lot about Christen, _and_ absolutely nothing about her at all.

Christen is jumpy. Tobin has the cafe door to thank for that. And she quickly writes a mental note in her head to play her music softly whenever Christen’s around.

There’s that bit about her helping Alex out in weekends, but having to go home at least before three in the afternoon hits. Because weekends have family dinners Christen can’t miss.

She’s chatty, really, really chatty. But Tobin doesn’t really mind because she absolutely loves hearing whatever it is on Christen’s mind; and the way her eyes dance along with her words and her train of thoughts is quite a marvel to behold.

She smiles at Tobin. A lot. In various kinds. Tobin’s personally torn between the one that scrunches Christen’s nose, and the one that makes her eyes crinkle.

And she wants Tobin to feel comfortable all the time that Tobin honestly runs out of ways to say that she really is—ways that do not involve _because you’re here_ , at least—every time Christen asks.

Christen also thinks that her passion for music is admirable, and that it’s brave of Tobin to pursue the one thing she’s passionate about. Tobin doesn’t miss the wistfulness that clouds her eyes, as if she’s talking from a place where she completely missed some chance. And Tobin so badly wants to ask, craves to dig deep down for answers.

But she’s left with just more questions when Christen blinks the dolor away, smiling a smile that has to be Tobin’s least favorite yet because it doesn’t chase away the edge on Christen’s lips, or the ghost that clouds her eyes.

And this aching need beneath her chest to learn all the things about this beautiful work of art.

.

 

By the time the clock strikes eight thirty, people are starting to flock in inside the cafe. Tobin figures it’s also probably the best time for her to start what she actually came here to do.

Christen, for her part, gets waved at by her best friend, with Kelley popping up at their booth to say, “I really hate to steal her away from you, Tobs, but the boss needs her help back in the kitchen.”

“Okay, okay,” the other woman dismisses, and sends Kelley sauntering back to the cash register with a wave of her hand.

She slides out of the booth the same time Tobin does, though her walk back to the kitchen gets cut off by Tobin’s form towering over her, catching her off guard.

“Sorry,” Tobin mumbles when Christen takes a small step back. “It’s just—you’ve got some… uhm—”

“Is everything okay, Tobin?”

She nods earnestly before fishing the handkerchief tucked at the back pocket of her jeans. She holds her hand out in front of Christen next, showing her the handkerchief that rests on her open palm.

Christen tilts her head a little, silently asking. Tobin only juts her chin out in answer, gesturing at the streak of flour that’s still dotting Christen’s cheek.

A confused frown etches on Christen’s forehead, so Tobin takes it in her to wipe them away. She moves the handkerchief with her thumb, so that it slides up on her palm, and then catches a piece of the cloth in between her thumb and index finger. She folds the caught piece of cloth in between those two fingers next, then leans forward as carefully as she can.

With bated breath, she presses the handkerchief on the curve of Christen’s cheek in the softest, gentlest way that she can, and wipes the flour off.

“Stay still, okay?” Tobin almost inaudibly whispers. “I don’t want to scratch you or something.”

Though, really, if it _does_ happen, it’s not because of Christen moving. It’s because of her hand shaking almost violently. It’s because of Christen’s scent quickly invading her senses, and Christen’s warm breath hitting her face.

It’s because of the green in Christen’s eyes, the _warmest_ she’s ever seen, and how it’s so easy to get lost in the scattered specks of gray; just as how incredibly easy it is to get lost in the music that runs in her veins.

She feels it thrum beneath her skin, drowning the white noise surrounding them into a hymn. The flutters in her stomach are butterflies-turned-hummingbirds moving, and Tobin has to swallow down the surging beat that seeps into her bloodstream and pulses through her palms just because Christen’s eyes looked like coming home.

.

 

Tobin sings about it, of course she does.

And when she gets to the first pre-chorus, and Christen walks out of the kitchen right as she sings, _I just wanna know you better, know you better, know you better now_ , she tries really, really hard not to think that it’s the universe trying to tell her something.

.

 

(But then, Christen looks up from the pastry display case and throws her a wink and a grin while Tobin’s lips are mouthing _everything has changed_.

How can she argue with that?)

.

 

“So, are you still going to play out there?” Alex asks after the morning set, and in between the half hour break she has insisted Tobin takes.

“I think...” Tobin starts to say. It’s followed by a pause next, as her eyes fall on Christen who’s cleaning the table that Emily—Kelley’s _something_ —just vacated. She shakes her head as subtle as she can when she hears Alex clearing her throat; ignores the smirk adorning Alex’s face as she says, “I think I’m gonna stay here for one more set. The people seem to like me.”

“Oh I bet _they_ do.”

...

 

The next day is pretty much the same, just with a different set of songs that Tobin swears aren’t about Christen entirely.

(Not all of them at least.)

Alex feels more than hears the shaky breath Tobin exhales when Christen breezes by their table and carefully sets a slice of cheesecake in front of the other woman.

“Here you go,” Christen says, squeezing Tobin’s arm that she has wrapped her fingers around at. “Just tell me if you want more, okay?”

And then Christen smiles this really pretty smile that even Alex falls weak for, despite being best friends for ten years now. And she swears it’s a whimper she hears when Tobin slumps back against the booth rest, as if all the bravado she’s managed to uphold has just rushed out of her system.

They both watch Christen saunter away, and Alex can only pat Tobin’s shoulder in sympathy, having borne witness to the multitude of hearts that have fallen out of their places and laid themselves at Christen Press’ wake.

.

 

Tobin kicks off her day’s set with literally kicking both her feet out of the booth, shaking the nerves out. She really is supposed to be used to this, but it seems that she will never be used to Christen and her presence at all.

Or the way Christen smiles at her, shy at first, growing bolder as each second passes, with Tobin returning it with an earnest grin that reaches her eyes.

 _It was only a smile_ , Tobin’s first song goes, _but my heart it went wild_. _I wasn’t expecting that._

If that isn’t her life’s theme ever since Christen dropped that first penny, she doesn’t really know what is.

...

 

She goes home that weekend with her first pay ever that Alex is more than happy to give. Apparently, their experimental stint did bring in more customers than Alex thought, so Tobin’s pretty much got a steady source of cash for all her weekends.

And an overflowing stream of inspiration. Every wave of Christen’s hand lays out a series of notes at the back of Tobin’s mind. Every swish of her hair is a melody that flows out of Tobin’s fingers and straight to her guitar. Every smile that makes Christen’s eyes sparkle is a song that’s just waiting to be written.

Tobin stashes the cash inside her drawer hastily. She moves around her humble apartment in quick, lithe steps, as if she’s being chased. But really, it’s her trying to keep her muse running. It’s her trying to get back on track and chase her lifelong dream.

.

 

She scribbles _demo track 1: a new beginning_ on top of the music sheet with a light heart. Like things are finally falling into place, and the final pieces of the intricate puzzle that is Tobin’s life are slotting themselves right where they should be.

...

 

The afternoon is bright despite the late night Tobin has spent the night before. She had called in sick for what is perhaps only the third time in her seven months stint at the bar she works at, and locked herself in her room until she had written the very last note and her ink had run dry.

Yet she rolled out of bed with an enthusiasm that has been well-missed, ready to take on the streets with a renewed passion coursing through her veins.

Alex waves at her from the cafe’s windows, which she returns animatedly. Her other hand lifts the well-used guitar off its case, and then hooks the sling across her torso.

She turns at the chime of the cafe’s door as it’s pulled open, Alex’s head popping in between the ample space. “Hey, Tobin! I better see you inside when you’re done there.”

Tobin chuckles, throwing Alex a playful salute. “With restraints.”

Alex’s raspy laugh wafts out from the cafe door as she tells Tobin, “As if you’d even need them when Christen’s coming over to stay for dinner. You know she’ll drag you in if she has to.”

It floats into the buzzing street when Tobin turns the tuning key a little too hard and her first string skips two notes higher, much like her heartbeat.

.

 

Ten songs and two hours later, Tobin finds herself sitting at that same booth Alex has first brought her to, thumbs twiddling as she watches her boss slide from one fret to another and hum the lyrics to herself.

It turns to an aimless plucking when Alex fails to remember the next chord. She lifts her head instead to look at Tobin, tells her offhandedly, “We should go out sometime.”

Tobin is so very glad that she has long gulped her sandwich down, and the coffee mug is filled with nothing but the last dredges of her second cup, or she would’ve spewed any of it out. Or worse, _both_. Onto her boss.

“Go out?”

Alex nods once, and eyes the other woman with a puzzled look when she starts blinking furiously at her, as if she’s just said something ridiculous.

“As in, after work?” Tobin prods on, disbelieving. “With drinks, and—and music?”

A shrug rolls off Alex’s shoulders. “Well, yeah, if that’s what you like.”

“Oh.” Tobin presses her lips together, and then pulls back from the booth table. She slides her hands off the smooth surface, hiding them underneath as her fingers start to fidget with the hem of her shirt.

She has never really been the assuming kind, but Tobin is almost sure that Alex is asking her out. And really, she’s flattered and all, though mostly just feeling awkward because she still hasn’t learned how to deal with stuff like professed feelings from other people in her thirty years of existence (she probably never will).

But she considers Alex as her friend too, one of the few people Tobin doesn’t want to lose. And so she takes a good long second to compose her thoughts, trying to come up with the most sincere way of letting Alex know that she already has given her heart away exactly seven weeks, twelve hours, fourteen minutes and six seconds ago.

 _Alex, look_ , Tobin thinks—forms the words inside her head, _you’re amazing and anyone would be lucky to have you. But you’re also one of the few friends I’ve grown to care for, and I’d very much like to keep it that way_.

It’s really the best she can come up with, and so she opens her mouth to speak next, despite the way her heart hammers against her chest at Alex’s hopeful look. “Uhm, Al,” she starts.

Though the way Alex’s brow quirks up at the formal tone makes her pause. She struggles with the uncertainty of where their budding friendship might be headed to once she lets the words out, but in the end chooses not to lead Alex on. “You’re—I...”

“Tobin, are you okay? You’re looking pale.”

“I am, thank you. But what I’m trying to say is—”

“Are you sure? You’re not gonna throw up, are you?”

Tobin thinks she might, from the way she shakes her head. Alex’s lips move to ask her for a third time, but the lump that has been lodged in Tobin’s throat rises into a rush of words, tumbling out of her lips and straight to her tongue.

“Alex, I like Christen!”

It’s Alex’s turn to blink at the other woman. Slow at first, and then shifting into swift flutters as Tobin’s words start to sink in.

Yet, what Tobin has expected to be a dejected look becomes one of complete bewilderment that settles firmly on Alex’s face.

“Okay...” The other woman raises her chin a little, nodding as slow as the syllables she’s drawling out. “That’s—well, I’ve always known you do and it’s actually a relief to finally hear it from you. But...” Alex lifts a hand, waving it in the ample space sitting in between her and the other woman. “What has that got to do with this?”

“Weren’t you just, you know, asking me out?” Tobin gestures helplessly. She honestly can feel a headache coming from a mile away. “And what do you mean you’ve always known?”

“What do you mean I’m asking you out?”

Silence blankets them both as they frown at each other, unblinking and looking more and more baffled with each tick of the clock.

It only breaks when Tobin suddenly blurts out, “I’m so confused right now.”

Alex stares at her for a good long second before she starts laughing, head thrown back in a pure amusement. Her arms wrap around Tobin’s guitar so it doesn’t slip as she drops her weight against the seat rest. “Oh my God,” she says in between laughs. “I think I started that the wrong way.”

Tobin just looks at the other woman as if she has grown another head, until Alex’s laughter trickles down into amused giggles.

“I’m sorry, but when I said we should go out, I meant as a group? With Kelley and Christen. Build a rapport, you know?”

Her laughter almost sets off again at the sight of Tobin’s eyes popping out. The only thing that stops her is the way Tobin swallows visibly next, as the color drains from her face.

She does feel a little bit bad afterwards, because it feels like she had a hand in forcing out a truth that Tobin wasn’t ready to admit to anyone.

And so she smiles at Tobin comfortingly instead, and shares the honesty. “I’m actually married to a beautiful man named Serv. He owns the record store two blocks down from where we live.”

Alex slides a hand towards Tobin’s own that the other woman is tightly gripping the edge with. She pats it three times, then, “I’m also not the cheating type, nor the tattletale that Kelley is.”

Kelley’s head snaps up at the mention of her name, eyes narrowing playfully at the two women’s direction. “You rang, boss?”

“A glass of water, please,” Alex replies, chancing a glance towards Kelley before returning it to a very, very red-faced Tobin who seems to have ceased breathing at this point.

She has admittedly been planning to give her a hard time, and a push or two to the right direction. But Tobin looks like she’s going to faint from embarrassment at any given second, and so Alex decides to just go straight to it. “Tobin, I swear on my husband’s precious Beatles vinyl collection, I’m not gonna say anything to Christen.”

A strained laugh escapes as Tobin exhales a shaky _thank you_ , feeling like she wants to lie down and bury herself in a mass of tangled sheets that she’ll never get out of.

Alex, in turn, squeezes Tobin’s hand, a silent promise that she’s going to keep her word. Tobin doesn’t even have to ask.

...

 

Tobin’s _everything_ only calms down after downing the glass of water Kelley places in front of her. It also helps that Alex is very much adamant to laugh off the embarrassing miscommunication they had earlier, and so by the time Alex teases her about her deer-caught-in-headlights look for the third time—all wide eyes and a gaping mouth—Tobin is able to laugh along with her.

“You’re not a very good conversation starter,” Tobin claps back at the other woman, who accepts the truth easily.

“You’re really not the first person to tell me that,” Alex confirms. “The first time I met Christen? I told her that her face was so distracting it needed to stop. But I swear I wasn’t hitting on her.”

Tobin’s very much inclined to agree—Christen’s face could literally be one that _launched a thousand ships_ —but she never really gets to let the thought out as the cafe’s door opens and closes with a bang, followed by hurried footsteps and Christen’s voice drifting from the counter.

“Kell! Did Tobin not show up today? She’s not outside! I need to know if she’s okay.”

And _oh_ , there she is. The conqueror of Tobin’s heart.

.

 

“She’s actually right there,” Tobin hears Kelley say, sees the finger Kelley points at their direction, and the way Christen’s head turns so fast she can’t help but think it must’ve hurt somehow.

“Tobin!”

Christen rushes towards their table. Alex makes a quick move to pull Tobin’s guitar case down to her booth seat, laying it on the empty space. It leaves Tobin no choice but to scoot over so that Christen has a place to sit.

Christen slides inside the vacant space with ceremonious grace, anxious green eyes roaming all over Tobin’s form as if taking into account every single pore and every single inch of Tobin’s skin. “You’re okay, right? I wasn’t—I thought something happened to you when I didn’t see you outside.”

Tobin honestly doesn’t know how her voice doesn’t waver as she replies, “I am. I was just taking a short break.”

“Are you sure? Your cheeks look flushed.”

Alex snorts from her spot. She tried to hold it in, she really did, but it’s never not funny to her when things go over Christen’s very, very pretty head.

Two sets of eyes fall on her, one imploring and the other just plain confused, and so she fakes a cough and then says, “Sorry. I think I’m catching, I don’t know, cooties or something.”

Tobin lets out a small squeak, her breath hitching at Alex’s words. But Christen takes it as something else. So she pushes Tobin’s snapback up slightly to make space, and presses the back of her hand against her forehead, not really convinced even with Tobin’s assurance that she really is fine.

“You do kind of feel warm,” Christen mutters. She lifts the cap up by its bill even higher, and feels the temperature with a gentle palm this time.

Tobin sucks another lungful of air, which she realizes a little too late that she shouldn’t have because now Christen’s scent is swimming in her head.

(And she’s close, oh so close. Tobin could write a song about this almost non-existent distance between them alone.

Maybe she will.)

It takes Alex clearing her throat to pull Tobin back to reality, while Christen jumps and suddenly drops the hand that she has unknowingly grazed down to Tobin’s cheek.

“I—I uhm,” Tobin lets her eyes roam around, tries to pretend that she didn’t just get lost in the oblivion that is Christen’s eyes. Ultimately, she fails. Sighing, she turns to Christen again, and then says, “I’m okay, I promise. And I’m ready to go play again, if you guys want.”

Christen hums, squinting her eyes. She points a good-natured finger at the other woman next, then, “Only if you’re sure.”

The tip of her finger hits Tobin’s nose accidentally, and so she runs a knuckle a few times to soothe the offended spot, giggling. “Oh, sorry.”

Inside her head, Tobin’s own heart is singing.

 _My heart’s a stereo_ , _it beats for you so listen close_.

...

 

“You’re here quite early.”

Tobin shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I figured I’d come in early in case you needed help.” She grips her guitar case tighter to stop her hand from scratching the back of her neck (her dead giveaway). “Besides, you guys wake up at, like, three in the morning. This is nothing.”

Alex backs away from the door to let Tobin in, and ambles behind the counter to where the extra set of aprons are. She unhooks a dark blue one from the rack sticking out of the wall, folds it in half before offering it to the other woman.

Tobin arches a brow that matches the puzzled look she answers Alex with. “Uh, Alex?”

“Chris is in the kitchen,” she replies, jerking her head towards the kitchen door’s direction. “You wanna help, right?”

She almost laughs at the eager nod Tobin answers in kind, and the visible gulp the other woman takes as she reaches for the apron Alex pushes towards her hands.

Tobin unfolds it in a single shake, and then dons it on, tying it loosely behind the small of her back. _Loosely_ , because her hands are trembling and it’s all that she can manage to do under Alex’s smirk and teasing gaze.

“Okay,” Alex says, suddenly looking affronted. She eyes the _Oh Crêpe_ scrawled perfectly on Tobin’s upper torso as if it personally offended her, her face scrunching because Tobin does really look good in an apron and that is just _so_ not fair. “That fits you better than it ever did fit me. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t cook?” Tobin offers truthfully. “I burn everything that isn’t pasta.”

Alex raises a hand, waving Tobin’s words off. “That’s okay. My best friend can, so still a match made in heaven.”

“W-why—who said anything about matching?”

“ _The Boss_ did.” She holds a palm up in front of the bold, white letters scribbled on her own apron. “Now go, but please, don’t make out over the cupcakes.”

Tobin blushes so hard that Kelley, who’s just trudged inside, pushes both her sleeves up and asks if she needed to do the Heimlich.

...

 

By the time Tobin finds the courage to knock at the kitchen door, Christen’s already halfway through topping their second batch of cupcakes with chocolate frosting.

She gently cracks it open at Christen’s soft _come in_ , with a fond smile instantly taking over her face at the sight of the other woman’s furrowed brows, as Christen swirls the icing around with practiced ease and steady hands stemming from doing something she loves.

“Hi, Christen,” Tobin says; considers it a miracle that she doesn’t stutter even when she sees that Christen’s hair is up in a messy bun, her neck all out for Tobin to see.

Her big, square glasses are dangerously close to sweeping Tobin off her feet. Though, what has her freezing on her spot—sandwiched in that space in between the door and its frame—are the words _Keep calm and kiss the baker_ doodled on Christen’s off-white apron.

(Because, _God_ , does Tobin want to.)

Tobin has to tamp down the squeak that almost escapes her throat, but she can’t really do anything about the whispered gasp that ensues. Not when Christen is smiling at her like she is now, and she’s calling her _Tobin_ so softly.

Tobin never even knew her own name could sound so beautiful.

.

 

Christen waves at her, gesturing for Tobin to go inside. Tobin, in turn, moves in a careful pace, focusing on trying not to trip in front of the girl her heart is skipping beats for.

(Even if her laughter _is_ something Tobin can listen to for the rest of her life; a melody she knows but still can’t quite put a name to.)

She makes it to the counter safely, just as Christen comes back from stacking the tray full of cupcakes on top of the medium-sized rack standing at the nearest corner.

“Alex said,” she starts to say, fingers latching onto the edge of the kitchen counter closest to her for support. She’s not swaying on her spot or anything, but one more step that Christen takes towards her and Tobin honestly thinks she’ll float away. “She said you needed some help?”

Christen hums, tilts her head, pretending to think about it. Then, she smirks. “I think I can handle it. But you look too cute in that apron to let it pass.”

Tobin quickly averts her gaze, fixing her eyes at that spot on the tiled floor that’s darker than the others. She briefly wonders if it was out of a burned _something_ , and moves on into guessing how much the giant oven pushed against the wall must’ve cost— _anything_ that isn’t about Christen’s words and her cheeky smile.

But Christen sees right through her, sees the redness spreading all over the curve of her cheeks. She can’t help the giggle that bubbles up her throat as she teases the other woman even more. “Awww, Tobs.”

Suddenly, _Oh Crêpe_ seemed so very fitting.

.

 

She stands dumbly there for a while with her hands tucked behind the apron, not really knowing what to do (she wasn’t really lying about not knowing anything about cooking). While Christen continues to putter around, pulling various ingredients from the cupboards and the lone freezer opposite the pastry rack.

Tobin watches Christen line the ingredients up on the kitchen counter, though she can’t tell each one apart, save for the flour, sugar and what she’s sure is a block of butter.

She stands transfixed at the way Christen carefully sifts the flour onto the mixer’s bowl filled with sugar and melted butter, her eyes trailing at the grains that fall (and _so_ not on Christen’s soft, steady hands).

“I’m making the batter for this coconut cake recipe I’ve been wanting to try,” Christen offers when she chances a glance and sees the blank look that’s starting to take over Tobin’s face. She doesn't want to bore her with meager details, but she can't stand the quiet either and have Tobin hear how loud her heart is beating. “I found one with an unusual twist, and I figured we might as well try it. We’ve started the strictly no jams tradition anyway.”

Tobin makes a sound, and her face lights up as though a light bulb just appeared above her head. “Is that why the place is called _No Jams_? Because you don't offer jams for your pastries?”

“For the record, Alex came up with it and I vehemently disagreed.” Christen chuckles as she shakes her head.

“But she’s the boss…” Tobin says, to which Christen agrees with, still chuckling.

“She’s the boss.”

They’re quiet for the few seconds that Christen lets the mixer work its magic, mixing the dry ingredients and melted butter together. Tobin looks on with interest, watches as Christen goes through the process of double checking the recipe, adding the eggs one by one and then, pouring the batter onto a tall, round pan, because Christen in her element is such a sight to behold that Tobin just _can’t_ take her eyes away.

Until Christen says, “Do you want to try spreading the batter around?”

“I’ve never—I,” Tobin tries to answer, but she hesitates at the last minute, seeing the earnest grin on Christen’s face. She doesn’t look tired at all, but Tobin knows that she’s been up since dawn and she doesn’t really want any of her efforts to go to waste. So she sighs and then says, “I’m probably going to get it uneven.”

“You’ll have the pan edges to guide you, silly,” Christen replies. She holds the steel spreader out for Tobin to take, leaving the other woman with no choice.

Tobin steps forward and onto the spot Christen leaves. She lets the spreader hover above the pan, eyes squinting at the batter while her hand shifts into a multitude of positions as she tries to figure out how to _actually_ start.

Beside her, Christen giggles, and now Tobin is lost for a totally different reason because Christen’s warmth next to her feels even more closer, like her own personal sun, and Christen’s smaller hand is covering hers.

(There’s a jolt of dangerous electricity that shoots from the back of her hand and up to her arm when their skins touch, and Tobin can only surreptitiously pray that Christen doesn’t see the goosebumps suddenly prickling her skin.)

Christen first fixes Tobin’s hold on the spreader, and then guides both their hands down next, pressing the flat surface onto the batter until it starts to spread inside the pan.

“Think of it as a paint brush,” Christen gently says. “And the pan is your canvas, and you want to cover it with yellow paint.”

Surprisingly, imagining such actually works for Tobin. (Maybe because she has always been more in tune with art than anything remotely belonging to a kitchen.) Though, a small dollop goes over the edge that Tobin would very much like to blame on Christen’s hand running up her elbow, with Christen’s fingers wrapping around it.

Tobin stops moving, and turns to Christen with an apologetic look. But Christen only squeezes at her elbow and smiles. “It’s okay.”

Tobin nods obediently, hiding the way her breath hitches underneath a mumbled _okay_.

It takes her a few tries, but the batter gets evened out, eventually.  And it admittedly feels like an achievement of some sort, especially when she turns to Christen and she’s greeted with a delighted, proud look.

“You just made your first cake!”

“I did, didn’t I?”

Christen laughs at the pure awe floating out of her tone, and reaches out to dip two fingers on the glob of batter that has fallen out earlier. Tobin’s still a little too astonished to notice, which makes Christen giggle in turn as she sneaks her hand behind her back.

And in a move that Tobin doesn’t see coming—she _should’ve_ given that Christen’s literally just mere inches away, but _doesn’t_ because of _everything_ else—Christen presses her fingers on Tobin’s cheek; from the center and up to the curve of it, leaving two trails of batter that end on the bridge of her nose.

“Christen!” Tobin yells, but it’s drowned by the cackle that booms from Christen’s chest and out of her mouth.

Tobin can only watch Christen tip her head back, can only laugh along with her while her heart bangs like a drum and her heart soars to sing.

 _All this heaven never could describe such a feeling as I'm hearing_.

.

 

The cake doesn’t turn out bad. At all.

Tobin isn’t deluded to believe that it’s all thanks to her slathering skills. Christen had followed the recipe down to a tee after all.

But Christen refuses to take the credit either, insisting to everyone who asked about and commended the new recipe that it was Tobin who had done it and that she only really helped out.

Tobin has long accepted the fact that she can’t do anything about it after the tenth person Christen points to her direction that she waves back to, and the next three who drop by the booth she’s spending her break at while sharing a slice with Christen.

“We’re gonna have to add that cake to the menu,” Alex says as she breezes by the booth with a stack of trays filled with plates and glasses on top in her hands. “And make a second batch for the late afternoon goers.”

Christen swallows the piece of cake she’s bitten off of her fork before answering. “It’s all thanks to Tobin.” She slices more and scoops it with her fork, and then taps Tobin’s arm, who is a little occupied with scribbling down requested songs on a piece of paper.

Tobin snaps her head up and tilts it, silently asking.

“Alex said you’re going to make the coconut cakes from now on,” Christen explains as she holds the silverware in front of Tobin’s lips. “ _Mi_ _propio pastelero_.”

Tobin doesn’t really know what it means, she thinks as she leans forward and munches on the offered food, but she likes the way it rolls off of Christen’s mouth; especially likes _mi_ more without really knowing why.

The heart really has a language of its own.

...

 

Tobin’s days unknowingly shift into two kinds as the weeks pass by: _Christen-ful_ and _Christen-less_. Afternoons on the streets and morning weekends she gets to spend with Christen, and the open mic nights that she still has not gathered enough courage to invite Christen to.

The in-betweens are filled with more music sheets and less sleep, though Tobin doesn’t mind losing it at all. She loves sleep, she really does, but she can hardly do anything about it when the notes and the rhythms weave together like vines that crawl from beneath her skin and into her hand, inking themselves and their words onto the sheets.

_demo track 2: oh darling, all i see is you_

...

 

“ _Dang it_ , this can’t be happening!”

Tobin pulls back from the mixer—who would’ve thought she’d learn to operate one by now—and looks over her shoulder, throwing Christen a worried look. “What’s wrong?”

Christen frowns as she shakes the contents of her brown Manila envelope out; frowns even more when she spreads the pieces all over the island counter and doesn’t find what she’s looking for. Then, she turns to Tobin, sighing. “I printed the wrong recipe.”

Tobin shuts off the mixer and wipes her hands clean with one of the folded cloths they use as a rag. She walks to where Christen is, planting herself right next to the other woman. “Which one?”

“Do you remember the cheesecake recipe I told you I’m going to try?” Christen asks, presses on at Tobin’s nod. “Apparently, there were five versions of that. I have no idea how but I printed the French one.”

She tapped on a lot of buttons (two), okay. So many buttons (just _click here_ , and then _print_ ). No one can blame her for losing track.

“Can I see?”

She hands the paper to Tobin, silently mourning the fact that they may have to skip the recipe today. And yes, she can always look it up on her phone; she knows this. But Christen has a self-imposed ban on using smartphones inside her kitchen for fear of it messing with microwaves and every other wave there is that exists inside the room.

Tobin studies it for a good long second—and _okay_ , maybe staring at the cute, concentrated look that settles on Tobin’s face is lifting Christen’s mood up a bit; yet, still—humming as she lowers the paper down for Christen to see.

“Number one says to mix the crushed graham and the melted unsalted butter,” she says, finger pointing at the first sentence.

Christen looks up at her in awe, completely caught off guard. “You know French?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Tobin confirms, grinning. “I did a couple of stints here and there for a few months and I figured, I should learn the language too.”

“That’s amazing,” Christen says, breathless.

Tobin tries to shrug it off, as it has never really been a big deal for her. Though, seeing the pure wonder in Christen’s eyes does make her smile.

“Come on, we’ve now got two cakes to bake together.”

.

 

They get through the recipe with minimal difficulty. It was basic French, Tobin explains to Christen, which they both feel grateful for (and relieved, though it’s more for Tobin’s part than Christen’s).

Now, they’re both just patiently waiting for the _ding_ that the oven will make. Christen already has the filling mixed and ready to go, while Tobin has the coconut cake’s batter—that she has mastered by now; deemed an incredible feat—slathered perfectly even on the pan.

“Can you tell me something?”

Tobin lifts her gaze from the papers she’s stacking back inside the envelope. The same ones Christen had sprawled on the counter earlier. “About what?”

“I mean, in French,” Christen clarifies. Though, she tries to downplay her interest with a shrug.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Uhm, okay.” Tobin sets the envelope down, and then props both her arms on the counter as she leans forward. Christen, who’s standing on the other side of the island and nearest to the oven, stoops down a little too, meeting Tobin head on.

Tobin feels the cold tile of the counter against her knees, but it’s her hands that feel arctic, clammy and chilled as she laces them together. Her face smooths out, her body tenses. And the words come out in a whisper. “ _Je t'ai aimé dès le moment où je t'ai vu_.”

“What does that mean?” Christen whispers back. And, _God_ , their faces are so close, Tobin could kiss her.

Tobin could kiss her, and get down on her knees and worship her next, all the while repeating the same exact words, and every song that Christen had asked and will ask her to sing.

But the _ding_ that they’ve been waiting for reverberates around the room, echoing in this suddenly awkward, empty silence. Christen jumps back and away from the island counter in surprise, leaving Tobin to swallow the meaning of her words down.

.

 

Kelley corners her at the hidden hallway, with a huge smirk to boot. And her eyes are shining in a way like she knows a secret Tobin doesn’t.

“ _I’ve loved you from the moment I first laid eyes on you_ , huh?”

The color drains from Tobin’s face, completely contrasting to how she was with Christen just moments ago.

(Granted, Tobin doesn’t really know where she had gotten that brief boost of courage from. All that she knew back in the kitchen was that her heart felt full to the brim, and there was _this_ need to let Christen know that swelled in her chest.)

But now that all of _that_ bravado is gone, Tobin feels her knees buckle, her limbs turning into jelly.

She barely even has the voice when she asks Kelley, “You heard?”

“Yes,” Kelley confirms; grins at Tobin as if this is a fact that she’s going to shamelessly hold over Tobin’s head for as long as she can. “And before you ask, I’ve got a year and half in Nice to thank for.”

Tobin swallows thickly. She’s not really sure what she can offer Kelley to keep this tiny bit of information to herself, but she’s willing to try and offer _anything_. “Don’t tell her, please.”

“What’s in it for me?” Kelley asks, smirking.

(She has zero plans on telling Christen, but Tobin doesn’t have to know that.)

“What do you want?”

“Do you really want to know what I want?”

Tobin sighs, rolling her eyes. “Yes. Now, tell me.”

“I want,” Kelley drawls, looking amused as she notices one of Tobin’s feet start bouncing. “You to do something about it.”

“About what?” Tobin still asks, feigning confusion even though she knows perfectly well what Kelley is pertaining to.

“About your _Je t'ai aimé dès le moment où je t'ai vu_ ,” the smaller woman answers, clawing at the air as she says the foreign words. “You’re not the only one crazy about her, you know.”

That, _that_ , is absolutely something Tobin doesn’t really want to know about.

.

 

(But maybe it’s what she _needs_ to know about.)

...

 

The glossy piece of paper feels thick and heavy as it rests at the back pocket of Tobin’s jeans despite it being thin and weightless.

She can’t help but think that it’s her name scribbled under _Open Mic Night_ that’s making it feel like it weighs a ton, as she finally has scraped every inch of herself for every bit of courage she needs to carry out what she plans on doing.

On paper, it’s incredibly easy. She just needs to hand the flyer to Christen, really, and speak the words out. That’s it.

But nothing’s ever been just _it_ when it comes to Christen, not when the enormity of Tobin’s feelings for her surfaces every time she’s around, threatening to burst at the seams.

And so Tobin finds herself sitting here at _their_ booth, glancing at the windows from time to time as she waits for Christen with twiddling thumbs and bouncy feet, and a song playing on a loop inside her head: _It's time to bring this ship into the shore, and throw away the oars, forever._

Tobin tries hard not to hiss as her fingertips drum against the smooth surface of the table. The sharp jolt of pain weaves within the lyrics that she’s humming to herself to pass the time, in between _I can’t fight this feeling anymore_ and her puffed breaths.

Last night’s open mic night set ran longer than usual. Tobin had to fill in for the entire night since the other singer couldn’t make it to her own set. And now, her fingers are paying the price.

(It’s painful enough that Tobin is seriously thinking if the doubled pay and tips for her back to back sets were worth it at all.)

She honestly easily could’ve skipped the streets today; could’ve opted to just lounge at home and let her fingers and her voice rest.

But such solitude means no Christen, and the question burning inside of her will just grow immensely in the deafening quiet of her apartment.

And the resounding _please say yes_ will bounce all over her head, unsilenced.

She’d take the pain over that any day.

.

 

She spots Christen not long after, crossing the street and straight to where the cafe is.

Tobin feels her heart hammer its way out of her chest, but she swallows the nerves. She knows she only really needs a few seconds of courage, so she slides out of her seat before she can even get the chance to lose it.

But when she glances at Christen again, all the air rushes out of her lungs. The music follows it, going out of the room as another woman stops Christen from getting inside the cafe.

She feels dizzy, and nothing makes sense. But from where she’s standing, she can see how Christen smiles at the woman; can trace the next moves Christen makes—from  her arm darting out and reaching for the newcomer to pull her into a side-hug, to Christen cradling the beautiful bouquet of flowers the woman hands to her in her arms.

When things come back to focus, Tobin realizes a few things: the cafe is filled with nothing but white noise; Alex is calling her name and asking her if she’s okay; and there’s something squeezing that _thing_ beneath her chest and taking the air away.

Her heart constricts right on the spot as she watches Christen exhale and the relief floods her face, as if the only thing she’s been waiting for has finally come.

She also sees, for the first time, the other woman’s face, and for a moment she wishes she didn’t. Not when it’s someone who she has to work with every night; someone she genuinely likes because they share the same passion for music that Tobin has and finds hard to chance upon on most people.

Tobin has always known she isn’t one of the luckiest, but now she can’t help but wonder if her luck ever existed at all.

.

 

She tries so hard not to be irrational about it, but all she sees is yellow, and all she hears is white noise. There’s no music filtering in and her head is full of static that’s making her feel dizzy.

All she sees is the way Christen smiles at Megan, in a way that Christen has never directed at her. And so now, there’s this voice screaming inside her head that’s telling her to just walk away.

She stumbles back against Alex, who thankfully steadies her with both hands.

“Tobin, are you okay? What happened?”

Tobin wordlessly grabs her guitar leaning against the booth’s thin frame before scurrying out of the cafe and past the back door.

.

 

Alex gets her answer from the crumpled flyer Tobin dumps in the trash, and the huge bouquet of white and purple carnations that Christen drowns behind as she waltzes in inside the cafe.

Though, when Christen asks where Tobin is, Alex doesn’t really know what to tell her.

.

 

Tobin’s admittedly half contemplating skipping her set tonight, though the other half of her—the _logical_ one—is already scolding _that_ part of her brain where Christen, and everything she knows about her, resides.

She’s not even sure if Christen even thinks of her as a friend. They’re acquaintances at best; Tobin doesn’t even know anything past Christen’s real name and the little bits and pieces Christen (and Alex) has shared about herself.

Yet, here she is, on the verge of throwing _everything_ out the window just because the girl she’s absolutely crazy about is crazy for someone else.

Tobin slides down and drops her entire weight against the wall of the closest secluded spot she can find, her head hitting the hard surface with a dull thud.

It feels almost like a movie, where the girl is chased by the person the universe wants her to be with. Their stars have already been aligned, while Tobin’s that tiny speck of dust desperately trying to get into Christen’s orbit.

.

 

She’s just ten steps away from _No Jams_ , and Tobin still has some time to decide whether or not to show up to work.

She’s really not sure if she can face Megan, and smile at her like she didn’t just snatch the very person her heart beats for under her clueless nose.

Yet, she also knows that she has no claim over Christen, because Christen is her own person who is very, very capable of choosing anyone she likes over Tobin.

Tobin’s someone she just met, who happens to sing songs that Christen happens to like, and has learned a trick or two to help Christen out.

But it has never really been more than that.

.

 

In the end, she plasters a smile on her face that makes her cheeks hurt. Tobin heaves a deep breath that swirls around a hollow chest, before picking herself up and lifting her guitar case by its handle.

She casts one last look at the cafe’s direction. There’s absolutely _nothing_ in there. Tobin doesn’t really know why she has expected anything else.

...

 

It takes one look at her for her boss to say that it’s okay to call her set off tonight. But Tobin’s conscience refuses to let her. The artist within her refuses to back down over a girl that she really has just recently met.

And so here she is, sitting on a high stool at the center of the bar’s raised stage, about to start her second set for the night, and sweating under the colored lights.

She opens it with a crowd favorite, refraining from giving in into the kind of music her heart is currently beating to. She keeps it jovial and upbeat despite feeling the exact opposite. Wallow in misery Wednesday is in a week after all.

For some reason, her rendition of Starving is a sure fire hit with the bar’s patrons, so Tobin brings her loop pedal to life and begins to record the needed melodies.

There’s a riff and a quick beat, followed by the backing vocals she sings into the mic that’s connected to her trusty loop pedal. The successions coax an applause from the crowd, which Tobin tries really hard not to shy away from.

But she does hide behind the mic as much as she can as she sings, “ _You know just what to say, things that scare me_.”

Tobin closes her eyes, dredging up the lines from that space inside her head where she keeps everything about her music, starts feeling the beat as the first chorus hits.

_Don’t need no butterflies when you give me the whole damn zoo._

Just as Tobin backs away for an ensuing rift, her eyes catch a familiar leather jacket in the crowd. It hangs onto the perfect slope of broad shoulders, her thin frame simply standing out amidst the sea of bodies swaying and jamming to the song.

She watches as Christen lowers her head shyly, looking at her from under her long lashes; nibbles at her bottom lip before waving her fingers at Tobin in greeting.

For the first time, Tobin pretends to not see anything, shuffling back to where her mic is. And when she sings _You know just how to make my heart beat faster_ , she lets her eyes roam all over the crowd, on every spot where Christen, or any view of her, is nowhere near.

.

 

(Christen takes it in stride, refusing to drop her head down and just leave with her tail between her legs.

But she’s not going to pretend that it doesn’t sting more than any burn her penchant for cooking has left in her hands.

Because it does. It’s a slap _and_ a burn that Tobin’s piercing eyes shoot straight to her heart.)

.

 

At the fifteen-minute break that the bar owner, Allie, insists on Tobin to take, she all but runs backstage.

But then there’s a guy, and he’s walking up to Christen’s table drunkenly, and he’s making Christen recoil and fold in on herself in a way that Tobin just can’t ignore. So she hovers around, keeping a watchful eye just in case he pulls anything.

Though Christen drives him away with an uninterested glare, and he leaves the table with a dejected look, cocktail drink still in hand.

Tobin’s gaze follows his disheartened form. She doesn’t feel an ounce of pity—for what feels like the first time ever; she’s always been told that she’s too nice for her own good—because his rejection means Christen is safe from potential harm, and Tobin can finally walk away.

So, she does.

.

 

Except, Christen is calling her name. Not Megan’s or anyone else’s.

And her heart is yearning for the time she can spend with her, and Tobin wants to be selfish even just for a few minutes.

.

 

“Hey,” she finally says, a good long second of trying to gather every ounce of confidence she can scrape from the pits of her gut—or more like a good long second after she’s made sure that the bile rising up in her throat isn’t gonna heave words out she might end up regretting. “I didn’t know you uhm, you go to open mic nights?”

“I don’t,” Christen replies truthfully. “I’m not really into the whole staying out at night thing. But I’ve got to meet someone.”

And it stings, way more than it should despite the affable smile Christen cushions it with. Tobin tries not to let it show, tries not to let Christen see on her face the way her heart falls out of her chest. “O-oh.”

“I met this really amazing girl who plays every night in this dainty bar.”

Tobin nods once stiffly, feeling like she’s going to spew chipped pieces of her heart out if she so much as moves an inch, or even breathes.

Of course, Tobin thinks, heart heavily anchored by the new found truth, Megan is amazing and beautiful and all kinds of perfect. While Tobin is just... _Tobin_. There’s almost no comparison to be made.

Maybe that’s why Christen hasn’t bothered going inside the cafe at all. Maybe she’s a little busy trying to know more about _this_ amazing girl from the bar.

(She shuts off the niggling thought at the back of her head, the one that screams there’s no way for her to know because she didn’t stick around long enough to find out.)

She and Christen would go well together, and Tobin is not going to stand in the way of that. Not if it makes Christen smile like this. So she says, “Ah, yeah. D-do you want me to take you to her?”

Christen blinks at the other woman, lids fluttering in confusion as she asks, “Take me to who?”

“The amazing girl you were talking about,” Tobin rasps, and then jerks a weakened thumb over her shoulders slumping as each second passes. “She’s backstage. I… I can help you get there. Her set doesn’t start till ten.”

“But you’re—” Christen starts to say. Her brows furrow deeper the longer she looks at Tobin’s face, and _sees_ the dejection that Tobin’s fighting from taking over. “Oh.”

“Or I could just call her here, if you want?”

Christen catches her bottom lip in between her teeth, curbing the urge to grin. She shouldn’t even be amused by this because Tobin honestly looks like she’s one blink away from a complete, total heartbreak. But she’s got it all wrong again, just like how she has been _not_ getting things for the past few months.

Christen reaches forward and takes the hand closest to her, prying open the fingers that Tobin has unknowingly clenched into a fist. “How about, you sit here and I tell you what I think about her first?”

In any other moment, Tobin would gladly accept the invitation. Though, she admittedly contemplates it briefly because there’s art in pain, and it breeds creativity as she’s been told by Adele and Sam Smith’s lyrics. Even Taylor Swift.

It could be what she needs, that final push for her to finally finish the demo tape she’s been slaving for for months now.

But Christen is the sunshine she doesn’t want to lose; that taintless, vibrant spot in her life that lets music flow to her veins.

And so Tobin says _no_ as she slowly pulls her hand back, careful not to hurt Christen in any way. “My break’s about to be over. I’d go get Megan so you can have some company, okay?”

But before she can leave completely, Christen’s catching her by her wrist and pulling her back. “Oh my God, Tobin!” There’s a muted panic written all over her face, and her eyes are pleading for Tobin to not go.

Either that, or the lights are playing tricks on Tobin again. She’s not even sure anymore.

“It’s you, okay?” Christen half-shouts and half-hisses. “I was talking about you! Megan is my friend’s girlfriend! They had a really bad fight last night, and Sue is refusing to talk to her so she asked for my help.”

“W-what?”

Christen’s eyes grow tender at the genuine look of shock that morphs on Tobin’s face, her once somber eyes now opening wide. “It was you. Right from the start.”

Tobin feels her throat close up on her—and at just about everything—and then there’s this unnamed thing on her chest _again_ that robs her of air, but in an entirely different way where she doesn’t feel like she’d want to cease to exist.

It’s the exact opposite, because the weight on her chest is very much welcomed; Christen’s hold on her heart.

“Th-that was mean!” She manages to say, though it’s with a huge grin that she can’t help from forming; feels her heart skip a beat the third time when Christen throws her head back and laughs freely.

“I’m sorry! I really thought you knew I was referring to you.”

“It never even cross my mind,” Tobin confesses. There’s a trace of sadness that Christen hears underneath her tone, which makes her slide her hand against Tobin’s and lace their fingers together. “I’ve always thought you were just really nice.”

“Oh, Tobs,” the other woman says, gives a Tobin’s hand a warm yet tight squeeze. She’s got a slew of words—a whole dictionary of the things she likes about Tobin—but she settles with, “You’re wondrous. The kindest heart I know. How could I not like you?”

...

 

Tobin really isn’t lying about her break being almost over. She does have another set to fill, so despite not wanting to be away from Christen (they have _so_ much to talk about), she peels herself off and makes her way back to the stage.

She fishes her ukulele from its case, an instrument she only ever breaks out on special stages. But after what just happened, Tobin feels the music thrumming in her veins again, and Christen’s _tune_ beating all over her chest.

“Hi everyone,” Tobin greets the crowd as she leans in into the mic, chuckling at the curious _oooh_ they make as she cradles the ukulele between her arm and her chest. “Before I start my second set, I would just like to say that months ago, I met the prettiest girl while singing on the street. And this girl has been the music within me for the past few months. And she’s here right now, and I’m trying to impress the hell out of her so you can’t tell me this next song is cheesy, okay?”

Laughter reverberates inside the bar, soon mixed with whistles as Tobin starts strumming the four strings. And then, she sings.

_Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love with you._

...

 

“You know, I’ve been thinking about this one song for a while,” Christen says as she and Tobin walk out of the bar, hand in hand.

She stops near the lamp post, tugging at Tobin who whirls around at once to face her. “What song?”

Christen lets her gaze fall on the lapel of Tobin’s coat, nimble fingers smoothing out non-existent creases. “I don’t remember the title, exactly. But I’m pretty sure it was about bearded barleys and milky twilights.”

Tobin hums, running the familiar lines inside her head. It barely takes her a second to figure the song out. “Oh, I know that! It’s called Kiss Me, Chris.”

And she even sings a small part of its chorus for good measure. “ _Kiss me, beneath the milky twilight. Lead me, out of the moonlit floor._ ”

Christen bites at her bottom lip, eyes growing soft and tender as she watches Tobin’s head sway a little to the beat.

“That’s it, right? The song you were thinking about?”

And really, she doesn’t know anything else to say so she rocks up on her toes, cups both of Tobin’s cheeks and captures Tobin’s lips into a kiss.

Tobin’s surprised at first, but it doesn’t last. Not when her veins thrum to life and her blood sings beneath her skin. Her hands move on their own, arms circling around Christen’s waist and meeting behind the small of her back.

She tugs her closer, pressing a kiss that lingers and reeks of a brand new beginning: of dawns they’d be spending inside _No Jams’_ kitchen and afternoons in the streets; of open mic nights, and _ten years from now, and we’ve both finally made it_ , _you’d still be who my songs are about._

**Author's Note:**

> here it is, the last fic i was editing to be t&c. thank you so much for reading, and hope you guys like it!
> 
> hmu @geekmythologys.tumblr.com :D (you can leave prompts too, though i can't promise that i can fill them right away XD)


End file.
